


Here We Sang About Tomorrow

by AuthorOutOfTime



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bucky isn't actually there, But he's the reason for the story, Empty Chairs at Empty Tables, Grief/Mourning, It wouldn't be a Stucky fic without angst, M/M, Rage, Steve Rogers walked into a bombed out bar, set during Captain America: The First Avenger, there is no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 12:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2428817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorOutOfTime/pseuds/AuthorOutOfTime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers walks into a bar... It sounds like the start to a bad joke. Maybe this is all just one big cosmic joke; maybe Bucky is going to come running up behind him, calling him a punk and slinging an arm around his shoulders. But no, he knows better. Bucky is gone. Bucky fell. And now Steve is wandering around London until he comes upon a very familiar pub. This is my headcanon about what happened right before Peggy found him drinking alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here We Sang About Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> So this was suggested to me by crazytook in the comments of my first fic and I thought 'why not?'. Title from 'Empty Chairs at Empty Tables' because I like to really twist the Stucky knife in my own heart.

_Your attention please: all citizens shall remain indoors until further notice. The blackout is still in effect throughout the London area. Please wait for the all-clear. Your attention please: all citizens shall remain indoors until further notice. The blackout is still in effect throughout the London area. Please wait for the all-clear. Your attention pl…_

As if anyone but him would be crazy or foolish enough to go out when bombs were falling like raindrops. Not that it mattered now. He moved through the bombed out city mechanically, sidestepping debris and twisted metal. The voice was just another broken record that he was forced to listen to. At least this one wasn’t in his head, an endless screech of metal and screaming that he would swear on a stack of bibles he could still hear, would always hear.

After a debriefing that went on for hours and only ended when Phillips put a stop to it, he started walking. He didn’t have a destination in mind, just away. Away from Gabe’s guilty eyes (he was on the train, too, after all), from Dernier’s soft, gentle ‘ _Je suis désolé, mon capitaine_ ’, from Falsworth and Morita looking at him knowingly (how could they know, they’d been so careful), from Dum Dum sadly shaking his head and clapping him on the back. They’re his friends, and they lost Bucky, too, but it’s different. They didn’t know that he lived for bananas when they could get them, or that he would sing under his breath while he cooked, or the way he looked when he and whatever lady he found would dance so exuberantly that they cleared the floor. They didn’t see him grimace when he said something achingly simple and perfectly truthful, even though it might hurt himself or Steve. They didn’t share couch cushions or, later, a bed, whether Steve was sick or not.

A plane flew over; obviously one of theirs, for no bomb fell on him. As his eyes drifted down from the sooty sky, he saw it. Half the building was gone, but maybe there was something left inside. His feet moved of their own accord, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he reminded himself that the days of being blind, stinking drunk after two beers were probably well and truly gone.

He stepped inside and found that the little pub had fared better than expected, but to his disgust, he realized that he was glad for the rubble and debris and the acrid burn of smoke. It was appropriate; it matched his mind. Broken glass crunched under his boots as he stepped into main room. He couldn’t bring himself to go through to the back yet. He couldn’t face the bar where he last sat, drinking a mug of dark, hoppy beer while Bucky sipped scotch and asked if he intended to keep the outfit.

He stood in the middle of the room, eyes closed, and breathing in the dank, burnt air. In his mind’s eye, he built the room exactly as it had been. His Howling Commandos were drinking and laughing no more than five feet in front of him. An electric excitement coursed around their table, a thrum in the air that was palpable even to the most oblivious observer, the thrill of camaraderie and brotherhood, the sense that they were all a part of something far more important than each individual. He watched himself stand and move to the bar, handing over their mugs and smiling as the barman asked where they were putting all of it. His chest felt strange, reliving that moment, knowing how it would end. Suddenly he was on the train again and that flash of blue light burst behind his eyes and he jerked, blinking. Finding himself in the present was an ache that would never be soothed and abruptly, blinding anger broke cold and bitter in his chest. He grabbed the first thing he could put his hands on and threw it as hard as he could. He wasn’t even sure what it was, a chair? A table? It didn’t matter. It shattered against the wall and he could no longer contain a howl of rage as he reached for something else. Chairs, tables, stools, even a large chunk of the ceiling disintegrated into splinters and dust. Nothing was safe from the whirlwind of his grief. In that moment, he was Steve, not Captain America. He was that little guy from Brooklyn, too dumb not to run away from a fight, no longer little. He hadn’t lost a soldier; Bucky was never just a soldier, never would be. He was the memory of popcorn and hot dogs at Coney Island, of silky milk chocolate when they could afford it, parceled out between the two of them as he tried to press extra pieces to Steve, furtively hoping he’d gain some weight.

Every single thing he broke was a memory, pressing down on him with an almost physical weight. This bar stool, it was the press of Bucky’s cool, rough palm against his forehead when he burned with fever. That chair was Bucky’s arm slung around his shoulders, calling him a punk and telling him to knock off the damned fighting as he guided Steve home from whatever back-alley brawl he found himself. The bottles, those were Bucky’s eyes, staring down at him in the middle of the night, the tinkling of them breaking the cries muffled against lips or a shoulder or a hand.

It took a long time for the frenzy of anguish to run its course, but when it did, he was left shaking and gasping amidst the destruction that the bombing had only partially caused. At last, he allowed himself to drop to his knees, and he sobbed.

And then, that, too, eventually stopped. He stood, stumbled passed the lone stool that survived the bomb and his rage simply because it was in the other room. He refused to even look at it, let alone sit upon it. He was convinced that if he did, he would see Bucky as he was that night, smirking at him.

After rummaging through the damage behind the counter, he found an unbroken glass and two bottles. It didn’t matter what it was, just that it burned going down, and maybe, just maybe, would be enough to numb the pain.

Righting a table and chair, he sat down, opened the first bottle, and poured. He ran a hand over his hair, straightened his tie, neatening himself up. This was a tribute to Bucky, after all. He didn’t bother drying his eyes, though. It wasn’t as if it would stem the flow of tears that hadn’t really ever stopped since he picked up the first chair. When he finally tossed the glass back, the heat hit the back of his tongue and flowed through his chest, finally settling in his stomach. At least that wouldn’t change.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there before he finished the first bottle. It couldn’t have been long. He didn’t feel a thing. Or, more accurately, he still felt everything. Every single emotion burned as clearly and brightly as it had before he picked up the bottle. He forced his mind back to his conversation with Dr. Erskine about just what the serum would do to him, how it would affect him on a cellular level. _Well, goddamn it_ , he thought, _so much for oblivion_.

He dropped the empty bottle on the floor and was halfway through the second when he heard footsteps.

 _Peggy, of course_ , he thought, glancing back. The rest of the Commandos wouldn’t come after him. He wiped his nose and reached for his glass again.

Peggy watched him sadly for a moment before moving to his side.

“Doctor Erskine said that the serum wouldn’t just affect my muscles, it would affect my cells. Create a protective system of regeneration and healing. Which means, I can’t get drunk,” he said, his voice flat. “Did you know that?”

"Your metabolism burns four times faster than the average person,” she said, righting a chair and settling into it with far more grace than anyone had the right to possess. “He thought it could be one of the side effects.”

He sighed with resignation.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said simply, as if it were true.

“Did you read the report?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know that’s not true.” He didn’t even bother to try to mask the bitterness. What was the point? The only person who knew him better was gone.

“You did everything you could.”

He could feel her eyes on him but couldn’t bring himself to look up.

“Did you believe in you friend?” she asked.

That got his attention. _Of course,_ he wanted to say.

“Did you respect him?” She barely paused. Apparently, he wasn’t expected to answer. “Then stop blaming yourself. Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice. He damn well must have thought you were worth it.” She spoke firmly, as if the force of her not inconsiderable will would make him believe her.

 _His choice_ , he thought heavily. As if either of them ever had a choice. Steve would barrel into any fight head first because he hated bullies, and Bucky would be right behind him, covering him because he loved Steve. _Did he know_ , he wondered, _that I loved him, too? I told him, but did he know?_

Bucky would tell him sometimes that Steve looked at him like he’d hung the moon, but it wasn’t that. He didn’t _hang_ the moon. He _was_ the moon. He lit the darkness with his warm, soft light, banished the bad and filled Steve with everything that made him any kind of good. Bucky swore that it was Steve that was already good, but Steve knew that Bucky made him better than he could ever be on his own.

“I’m going after Schimdt. I’m not gonna stop until all of HYDRA is dead or captured.” He’d made that decision the moment that ladder rung wrenched itself free. Bucky’s sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain.

“You won’t be alone,” she said softly.

No, he wouldn’t. His men would follow him anywhere. Bucky would be avenged.

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are at the end. (Do you know how hard it was to not add 'of the line' to that? This ship has taken over my life and I regret nothing.) I hope you liked it. Well, I say 'liked', but really I mean 'I hope, if it was good, you don't hate me for giving you feels'. Constructive criticism, comments, and kudos always welcome! Come follow me on tumblr at blackcamouflagewarpaint.tumblr.com!


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